The Last Human.

The last human rubs its empty stomach, a deflated sack hanging from broken ribs, cheeks sallow and gaunt, the human's eyes shadows in black orbits. Its world is ash.

It hears a sound, the scratchy cawl of a scuttlebird, wings bent into claws that drag it lickety-split towards the human. Its wake is a plume of poisoned ash. The human screams unintelligable syllables and hopes to crawl away, but it is no match for a hungry hungry scuttlebird.

The last human is gone. A million squirm worms, blind smelled their way to the surface, mark what trace blood the scuttlebird left alive. The scuttlebird hops along, and repeats its horrible cawl, a mimicry of language it heard once in the rock place, before the time:

"Donttalk tome beeee foreI've hadmy co ffeeeeeeeeeee," it crows. "foreI've! foreI've! co ffeeeeeeeeeeeeee..."